American Apologies
by HollidayMourner
Summary: When America gets into another fight with his brother, it's up to Russia to comfort his long-time boyfriend. However, Russia's style of comforting isn't exactly... orthodox, which leaves America promising to teach him the proper way to comfort someone. Established RusAme. OOC characters. Disclaimer: I do NOT own Hetalia.


**A/N: It took me forever to finish this story, mainly because I just couldn't think of anything to write** **. But I finally finished it. :D I hope you enjoy, the warnings are below.**

 **Warnings: Mentions OOC Canada, but he's not actually present in the story. Slight OOC for both America** _ **and**_ **Russia, because that's the only way the story would have worked.**

America could hear the front door close from where he laid, curled up, under his blankets. His cell phone was on the end table beside the bed, blinking continuously from all the numerous messages and missed calls he had received in the past few hours. He had hoped each incoming text and call would be from his brother, with whom he had just had a nasty fight, but he knew better than that. Canada wouldn't try getting a hold of America after they fought, just like all the times before. Or, better yet, France wouldn't _let_ Canada contact America, seeing as how every time they fought, the Frenchman was _always there_ , egging Canada on and fueling his temper.

No, America knew the messages and missed calls were from his long-time boyfriend, who had probably just been worried because America hadn't called him at work like always. He knew the texts and calls were just Russia's attempt to make sure everything was okay. America felt a little guilty as he laid in bed and stared at his blinking phone, but he couldn't scrape up enough energy or willpower to do anything about it as he heard his name being called from downstairs.

The thick Russian accent echoed in the silent house, and America shivered underneath the heavy blankets. He could hear the concern in Russia's voice, and America wanted to call out and let him know where he was, that he was fine. Physically, at least. He wanted to curl up against Russia's side, tucked underneath his arm, where he felt safest. He wanted to cling to his chest and cry for hours after telling him all about the mean things Canada had said and done. He wanted his lover's arms wrapped tightly around him, comforting him and telling him everything will be okay, that he'll take care of it, or that Canada will call eventually and everything else will just fix itself.

America scowled, thrusting his arm out and knocking his cell phone off the end table, sending it flying across the room. There was no way he would do any of those things, no matter how much he needed and wanted to. He couldn't make his body obey him. When America opened his mouth to call out to Russia, the only noise that got through was a strangled-sounding croak. When he tried to uncurl his body and stand, his joints screeched in protest and locked up. When he tried to close his eyes against a fresh wave of tears, the only thing he could do was stare at the end table where his cell phone had been, the tears cutting new tracks down his warm, emotion-reddened cheeks.

He heard the stairs creak faintly, heard the heavy footfalls of Russia as he ascended. His name was called again, much closer than before. America turned his head towards the door, which was standing slightly ajar with a dress shoe wedged in the opening. It had landed there after America had thrown it across the room, and he hadn't had the energy to move it afterwards.

The door opened softly. The sound of the shoe being nudged out of the way was like a gunshot in the deathly quiet room. America didn't make a sound as he turned back towards the wall, but he could feel Russia's eyes traveling over his curled-up, cocooned body, as if the gaze itself was a touch, a loving caress.

Then, Russia spoke. "Alfred?" His voice was soft, and it was only one word, but the sound of it sent another sob tearing through America's body. In an instant, Russia was by his side, his hand on America's shoulder. Gently, ever so gently, Russia lifted the blanket covering America's face.

America flinched and turned his head away, trying to hide his tears.

"Alfred, what's wrong?" Ivan asked softly, peeling the blanket away from America's body. He was covered in sweat and tears, a large, deep bruise on his left cheek. "What happened to you?"

America buried his face in his pillow, words muffled. "Matthew."

"Matthew?" Russia blinked in confusion. "Your brother?"

America nodded, wincing slightly as the action irritated his bruise.

Russia leaned in close, nuzzling the back of America's head with his nose. "What did he do? Did he hurt my little geroy?" His tone was slightly mocking as he placed a gentle kiss behind America's ear.

America shoved him away weakly, fighting back tears. "He _did_ hurt me," he snapped. His voice cracked slightly at the end, and Russia instantly regretted his teasing. Hoping he'd get the chance to make up for his harsh words, he wrapped his arms around America and hefted him into a sitting position. The American's joints cracked and popped as they adjusted stiffly to the new position. Russia's brows furrowed in worry.

"Alfred..." He murmured, pulling the American close to him. America buried his face in Russia's chest, his shoulders heaving with sobs. "What did he do to you? You've never been this upset after an argument before. Come, lapushka, tell me what happened." Russia cooed and nuzzled his nose into the top of America's head.

America pulled back and glared. "This is not a time for your silly pet names, Ivan. I'm seriously hurt right now."

Russia repressed a sigh. "Yes, yes, Alfred, I know. He really hurt you this time..." His voice trailed off as he raised a hand to the bruise on American's cheek. He brushed the tips of his fingers lightly against the sensitive, blue-and-purple skin.

America flinched away from the touch, burying his face in Russia's chest once again. "Hurts..." He mumbled. His grip on Russia tightened.

"Tell me how he hurt you." Russia's voice was soft, soothing. His large, calloused hands ran the length of America's back, rubbing circles into his tight muscles. Russia could feel America relaxing beneath him, the shaking of his shoulders slowly ebbing.

America hiccuped. "I was over there to hang out with Matt," America began. "And fucking _France_ was there, like _always."_ America's face twisted in anger.

"What happened, Alfred?" Russia murmured gently, closing his eyes and burying his face further into America's hair. He sniffed deeply, enjoying the scent of America as it filled his nostrils and cleared his head.

America huffed. "Matt wanted to watch hockey. I _hate_ hockey, and he knows that. But I decided to watch it with him anyway since Cuba beat him up not too long ago thinking he was me. I felt like it was my duty as the hero to take Mattie's mind off of how much his ribs hurt. Cuba broke them, remember?" America leaned back and stared up at Russia, his eyes wide.

Russia nodded. "I remember."

America nodded, burying his face back into Russia's chest. "Right. So anyway, I did the heroic thing and say through three hockey games with Mattie. But France was there - remember I told you that, too? He's always there. I don't know why, but he is, and it pisses me off."

"Alfred." Russia's voice was quiet but firm, urging him to stay on topic and finish his story.

America pouted against Russia's chest, turning his head so his bruised cheek was exposed to the cold bedroom air. "France was there. And he kept saying things to piss me off. He loves when me and Mattie fight, I swear. He, like, gets off on it or something, I don't know, but it's aggravating and every time I'm over there spending time with my brother, France has to start something between us. And every time I bring it up to Mattie, he gets mad. That's what started the argument this time: I told Matt that I thought it was time for France to leave since I'm not having any fun."

America lifted his face, pout still strong on his lips. Russia chuckled, leaning forward and pecking his lips. America grimaced, shaking his head and burying his face back into Russia's chest. "Let me finish my story before you go and do things like that..." He mumbled.

Russia chuckled. "Okay, lapushka. Continue."

America decided to ignore the pet name and snuggled closer to Russia. "Matt got mad. He said it didn't matter if I had fun or not because I was there for _him,_ and so was France. He said that I had to suck it up and get along with France for the next couple of hours that I was up there visiting. Well, I got mad. I always get mad when Mattie says things like that. I don't like it, and he _knows_ that but he still does it!" America shot a quick look up at Russia before continuing.

"We argued. France got involved. As always. And eventually Mattie got really violent - because of France. He instigated the whole thing when I tried to end it and leave before it got too much worse. Mattie got a hockey stick out of nowhere and France was yelling and cheering and laughing and... and..." Hot tears pricked at the corners of his eyes again. America took deep breaths, attempting to calm himself before he became too worked up. Russia rubbed soothing circles into his back as he waited patiently for America to continue.

Finally, America took a deep breath and continued softly, "Mattie hit me in the face with the hockey stick. I don't know if it was an accident or if he just got so angry that he blacked out for a little while - we do that, me and him. It's the worst thing in the world, doing things and not knowing what you're doing until it's too late..." His voice trailed off, sneaking a glance up at Russia. His violet eyes were narrowed and glinting dangerously.

America gulped. "He apologized, though, right after he did it," he continued on hurriedly. "I mean, the hockey stick broke and he was pretty upset about that, but when he realized that he hit me he dropped the stick and hugged me really tight. He apologized and everything, but I was so mad and shocked that I couldn't forgive him. He _hit_ me, Ivan. He hit me..."

Tears stung the backs of America's eyes again as he ended his story. There was a frozen lump in his chest where his heart was, but he didn't know what that meant. America started to ask Russia what, but then he remembered the look in his lover's eyes and figured that England would have a better answer.

Russia leaned forward, nuzzling his nose gently against the bruise on America's cheek. America hissed audibly at the pain. Cooing softly, Russia pressed gentle kisses along America's cheekbone, ghosting his lips over the bruise.

He pressed one last, sweet kiss against the bruise before murmuring, "It is okay, lapushka. I will handle your little Canadian problem. Everything will be okay. He won't ever hurt you again. It's okay, it's okay. No more tears." Russia kissed the drying tear tracks on America's cheeks, his gentle, loving voice contrasting severely with the deadly intent of his words. While the words themselves didn't sound all that dangerous, the person murmuring them was _very_ hostile.

Suppressing a shiver at the thought of what Russia would do to Canada, America gently shoved him away. With a stern expression on his face, Alfred said, "You don't have to do that. I'm just going to wait until France leaves and then call Mattie and talk to him. I can handle it myself."

Russia blinked in confusion. "But then why were you crying to me about It? Don't you want me to handle your brother for you?" He cocked his head to the side and watched as America fought with the frustration rising in him.

America's face burned red, but whether it was more from embarrassment or anger, he wasn't quite sure. "I was not _crying_ ,"he hissed. Okay, maybe it was more out of embarrassment. "I was explaining why I didn't answer any of your calls or texts or anything." America met Russia's eyes. The childish, confused gaze was hardening into something else, but what that something was, America wasn't sure.

He took a deep, shaky breath. "I... I was just telling you... for no reason..." America grumbled, burying his face in Russia's chest once again. His cheeks burned brighter, the warmth crawling down his neck and over his ears as his embarrassment grew.

Russia lifted an eyebrow, smirking. "No reason?" He questioned, voice slightly mocking once again.

America's burning face flushed even greater from the cold of the room as he pulled away from Russia once again. "Yeah, for no reason! Because I definitely wasn't telling you so you'd comfort me and take care of me and make me feel better!" A pout grew on America's face, his reddened face comical.

Russia chuckled. "Oh, lapushka. That's what I was doing. I was trying to make you feel better, but then you pushed me away like some heartless woman." Russia's pout mimicked America's, knowing the action irritated the other.

America growled. "Don't mock me! That wasn't comforting me. Actually, that made me regret telling you at all since you threatened to hurt Mattie. You can't hurt my brother!"

Russia's fake pout dropped, his eyebrows stitching together into an expression America couldn't read. "He hurt you. What else am I supposed to do?"

America shoved himself off of Russia's lap, standing in front of him. When Russia tried to stand, as well, America placed his hands on the Russian's shoulders and held him down. He crossed his arms over his chest. "You could comfort me. That's what I wanted. I didn't want death threats thrown at my brother."

"But I was comforting you."

"That wasn't comforting! That was being creepy and weird."

Russia's expression turned dark, the anger bubbling behind his violet eyes. He stood up, so close to America that their chests brushed together.

Alarm shot through America's spine, forcing him back a step. He cursed himself silently for backing down, for showing weakness, but with another glance at Russia's expression, America was glad he'd done it.

"Excuse me for comforting you the only way I know how, for not knowing how to ' _properly'_ comfort someone. Sorry I never had anyone there to teach me how to do it the 'right way,'" Russia hissed, his violet eyes darkening with rage.

America would have felt triumphant for finally getting the cold nation to apologize if it weren't for the heavily sarcastic tone. The realization that even he - dense, clueless America - had picked up on the sarcasm was like a punch in the face. His frozen heart twisted, sharp as a knife embedding itself in his ribcage.

Russia stood across from him, fists clenched tightly at his sides, whole frame quivering with intense emotion. He was within arm's reach, but America found himself afraid to reach out, imagining a sharp slap to his bruised cheek. Russia would never intentionally hurt him, but he was capable of anything if he was angry enough.

With another quick once-over of the looming Russian, America decided that he was, in fact, angry enough.

But that was before he noticed the blood dripping from Russia's hands. Before he noticed the blood, America was calculating the sea of emotions boiling behind Russia's eyes. He was predicting each counter movement Russia would use against each of his movements. He was worrying that this time he wouldn't be able to reach him and bring him back.

When America _did_ notice the blood, however, all those thoughts and calculations and worries flew from his mind. He knew the blood was from Russia's ragged nails cutting into his palms, but that didn't lessen the alarm that he felt at the sight of it. If his fingernails had pierced his skin enough that it drew blood, America knew he was _really_ angry, and that wasn't okay.

Lurching forward, America captured Russia's hands in his. He brought the clenched fists up before his eyes, examining the blood as it dripped from Russia's hands onto his. Using the pads of his thumbs, America brushed Russia's knuckles gently, urging them to open. The Russian resisted at first, but finally relented when America's petting persisted.

The sight of the bloody half-moons cut into the palms of Russia's hands tightened America's hands. Gulping quietly and repressing a shiver of disgust as America remembered something Russia had told him years ago, he leaned forward and flicked his tongue gently across the cuts, lapping up the blood. It tasted coppery, like a mouthful of iron.

Russia's sharp intake of breath caught America's attention. His gaze flickered up to Russia's sky blue locking with violet. So many emotions swam behind the walls Russia had always placed around himself, but the one America caught onto first was the confusion, and then the pain - there was so much of it. America felt his heart constrict again as he lapped up the blood from the other palm.

Without taking his eyes off Russia's hands, America reached for the first aid kit he had stashed away in the drawer of his end table. Not bothering with any of the ointments intended for quick healing, he reached for the bandages.

Russia watched as America wrapped the bandages around his palms, taking note of the expertly clumsy action. That was how Russia had always described America and everything he did - expertly clumsy, expertly clueless, and expertly stupid.

When his hands were wrapped in the bandage, Russia jumped at the feeling of America's lips placing a tender kiss to his palms. His violet eyes swam, blurring the vision of Alfred's face as he straightened up and wrapped the hulking Russian in his arms.

"It's okay if you don't know how," America murmured into his ear. "I'll teach you."

Russia wrapped his arms around America tightly, burying his face into the crook of America's neck, inhaling deeply. He was new to this whole comforting thing, but he thought he might be able to get used to it.

 **A/N: It turned into the cutesy story I was trying to avoid, but that's because I can't resist the cute, adorable endings. I just love them so much. Especially the RusAme pairing. I love when Russia's all vulnerable - he's so adorable. :3 Anyway~ I hope you enjoyed the story and please don't forget to review, favorite, and check out my other stories. Thank you. :)**


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